Saturday night or, better, Sunday morning, since the night has already passed, and the sky has brightened. I feel happy, Diary: my body is saturated with such euphoria, although becalmed by a sensation of utter bliss; a sweet, unbroken tranquillity engulfs me completely. Tonight I learned that letting yourself go with someone you like, someone who overwhelms your senses, is a sacred thing. It’s then that sex ceases to be merely sex and begins to be love, while nuzzling the scented skin on his back or caressing his strong, soft shoulders or smoothing his hair.
Not for nothing was I agitated: I knew what I was about to do. I knew I was deceiving my parents. I was getting into a car with a twenty-seven-year-old guy I scarcely knew, an attractive maths teacher, someone who inflamed my senses. I waited for him outside the house, beneath the awesome pine tree, and I saw his green car slowly approach. He wore a scarf around his neck, and the reflection from his glasses thrilled me. Contrary to what he said a few days ago, I didn’t wait for him to instruct me on what I should wear. I chose the lingerie from the top drawer, put it on, and then donned a little black dress. I looked at myself in the mirror and pulled a face, thinking I was missing something. I slipped my hands under the dress and slid down my panties. I smiled, whispered, “Now you’re perfect,” and blew myself a kiss.
When I left the house, I felt the cold seep under the dress, and the surly wind grazed my bare sex. After I’d got into the car, the Professor looked at me with bright, enchanted eyes and said to me, “You didn’t put on what I asked you to wear.”
I directed my gaze toward the road before me and replied, “I know: disobeying teachers is what I do best.”
He gave me a slightly noisy kiss on the cheek, and we set off for a secret place.
I kept running my fingers through my hair. He may have thought it was tension, but it was really desire. The desire to have him there, at once, without any preliminaries. I don’t know what we talked about during the journey because my mind was fixated on the thought of possessing him. I looked at his eyes as he drove. I like his eyes: they’re intriguing, magnetic, with long, black lashes. I noticed that he cast furtive glances at me, but I acted as if nothing were happening. Then we arrived at Paradiso, or perhaps the Inferno, depending on your point of view. His car continued down deserted, narrow streets that seemed impossible to navigate. We passed a dilapidated church covered with ivy and moss, and Valerio told me, “Keep an eye on your left: you’ll see a fountain; the next turn is the place.”
I peered down the street, hoping to spot the fountain inside the dark labyrinth.
“There it is!” I exclaimed a little too loudly.
He switched off the engine before a rusty green gate, and the headlights illuminated some words written on it. My eyes rested on two names inserted in a heart so shakily drawn that it seemed to be quivering: Valerio and Melissa.
I looked at him, stunned, and pointed out what I read.
He smiled and said, “I can’t believe it!” Then he turned toward me and whispered, “You see? We’re written in the stars.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. Nonetheless, the “we” reassured me and made me feel part of a team where the members were matched instead of mismatched like me and the mirror.
I was afraid of this paradise: it was dark, steep, almost unattainable, especially since I was wearing boots with very high heels. I tried to catch hold of him as fast as possible; I wanted to feel his warmth. We kept on stumbling over stones. On those dark, narrow, walled-in streets the only visible thing was the sky, tonight dense with stars, and the moon coming and going, playing just as we were. I don’t know why, but this place filled me with gloomy, macabre sensations. Stupidly, or perhaps legitimately, I thought that somewhere nearby a black mass was unfolding, and I was the designated victim. Hooded men would bind me to a table, I would be surrounded by candles and candelabra, they would rape me one by one and finally kill me, using a dagger with a sharp, sinuous blade. But I trusted him; perhaps these thoughts were due to my absorption in the magic of the moment.
The alley that provoked such fears led us to a clearing that juts out over the sea. You could hear the waves foaming on the shore. There were huge rocks, white and smooth: I immediately imagined the purpose they could serve. As we approached each other, we stumbled yet again. He pulled me closer to him, drawing me to his face. Our lips grazed without kissing, as we inhaled our scents and listened to our breathing. We joined and devoured our lips, sucking and biting them. Our tongues met: his was hot and soft; it caressed my mouth like a feather, making me tremble. The kisses turned red-hot till he asked if he could touch me, if it was time. Yes, I replied, now’s the time. When he discovered I wasn’t wearing panties, he froze, and for a few seconds he remained motionless before my bare flesh. Then I noticed his pressure, as he began to massage my erupting volcano. He told me he wanted to taste me.
I sat on one of the enormous rocks, and his tongue caressed my sex as a mother’s hand caresses a newborn’s cheek: slowly, gently. The pleasure I experienced was continuous, relentless, dense and fragile at the same time. I was melting.
He rose and kissed me, and I tasted my juices on his mouth, and they tasted sweet. I had already brushed against his member numerous times and felt it hard and meaty beneath his jeans. I unbuttoned them, and he offered me his penis. I’d never been with a circumcised man before; I didn’t know the glans would already be exposed. It was like a velvet tip, smooth and soft, and I couldn’t help but approach it.
I rose, and drawing close to his ear, I whispered, “Fuck me.”
He too wanted it, and as I was rising from my kneeling position, he asked me where I had learned to give head like that. My serpentine tongue had driven him crazy.
He asked me to lie face down against the rock, my buttocks in full view. Then he examined them, a bizarre gesture to my mind, yet sensing his gaze upon my curves really excited me. I awaited the first thrust, my hands placed on the cold, smooth stone. He approached and aimed for the target. I wanted him to tell me how I was offering myself to him: a little slut who never gets enough. I uttered a moan of assent that accompanied an abrupt, well-positioned thrust. Then I separated myself from that pleasing puzzle, and gazing at him imploringly, wanting to feel him inside me again, I told him that pausing a few minutes would intensify our pleasures.
“Let’s go back to the car,” I said. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”
We again traversed the dark labyrinth, but this time I wasn’t afraid. My body was being traversed by a thousand sprites that delighted in chasing after each other and making me feel by turns distressed and euphoric, ineffably euphoric. Before climbing back into the car, I again observed the names written on the gate and smiled, letting him get inside first. Right away I stripped, completely; I wanted every cell of our bodies, our skin, to touch and share exciting new sensations. I straddled him and began to ride him ardently, alternating gentle, rhythmic thrusts with ones that were abrupt, hard, grinding. As I licked and kissed him, I heard him moan. His moans were killing me, I lost control. It’s easy to lose control with him.
“We are two masters,” he said at a certain point. “How shall one be forced to submit to the other?”
“Two masters,” I answered, “who fuck and take turns enjoying themselves.”
I machine-gunned several sharp thrusts, and magically I seized the very pleasure I thought no man could ever give me, the pleasure that I alone was able to procure myself. I felt spasms everywhere, in my sex, my legs, my arms, even on my face. My entire body was electrified. He removed his sweater, and I felt his naked, hairy torso, burning hot on my creamy breasts. I rubbed my nipples against that marvellous discovery, caressing it with both hands, making it all mine.
I got off his body, and he told me, “Touch it with your finger.”
I did, astonished, and saw his member weep. Instinctively my mouth drew near, and I swallowed the sweetest, most sugary sperm I had ever tasted.
He hugged me for a few moments, and for those moments, which seemed infinite to me, I felt as if I had everything. Then he tenderly rested my head on the seat while I was still naked, curled up and lit by the moon.
My eyes were closed, but still I sensed him staring at me. It didn’t feel right for him to lay his eyes upon me all that time. Men are never satisfied with your body; beyond caressing it, kissing it, they want it to be imprinted in their heads, never to be erased. I asked myself what he might be experiencing by looking at my body, asleep and motionless. For me, looking isn’t necessary, perceiving is more important, and tonight I perceived him. I tried to repress a laugh when I heard him grumble about being unable to find his lighter. With my eyes still closed and my voice hoarse, I told him I’d seen it fly out of his pocket when he threw his shirt on the front seat. He gave me a sad glance and opened the window, letting in the cold that I had not felt before.
After a long silence, he exhaled some smoke and said, “I’ve never done anything like that.”
I knew what was on his mind. I felt this was the moment for a serious conversation that might either jeopardize or strengthen our dangerous, precarious, and exciting relationship.
I slowly approached him from behind, placing my hand on his back and then my lips on my hand. I waited a bit before speaking, but from the start I knew what I had to say.
“The fact that you’ve never done it doesn’t mean it was wrong.”
“Nor right,” he said, exhaling more smoke.
“Who cares if it was right or wrong? The important thing is that we felt good, we lived deeply.” I bit my lip, aware that a grown man wouldn’t listen to such a presumptuous young girl.
Yet he turned around, flicked away his cigarette, and said, “This is why you make me lose my head: you’re mature, intelligent, and you have this passion inside you that’s utterly boundless.”
He’s the one, Diary. He recognized it. I mean my passion. On the way back home, he told me we’d better stop seeing each other as teacher and student, he couldn’t think of me in that role any longer, and besides he never mixes work with pleasure. I replied that it was fine with me. I kissed him on the cheek and opened the gate, while he waited for me to enter the house.